


Skipping On Smoke Trails

by Catminty



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: More than Meets the Eye
Genre: Angst, Cuddles, Developing Relationship, Drunken Confessions, Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi, Past Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1458523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catminty/pseuds/Catminty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Mostly) Harmless fun turns into an uncomfortable attraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first few chapters are reposts from my NaNoWriMo collection.

It had been such a nice evening. 

Cyclonus was in one of his rare giving moods where he'd huff irritably but inevitably go along with whatever Tailgate asked for. The little white and aqua mech tried his best to not abuse his opportunity, but... He wanted to go out, to have some fun. Recovering was a long and boring process filled with hours of staring at a ceiling and moving around as little as possible because Cyclonus hated fidgeting. 

So, in light of the rare mood, Tailgate managed to work up the nerve and ask if they could go on a walk together. The surly mech immediately shot down the idea. "You're too weak," he said, but he was kind enough to compromise. Cyclonus actually carried Tailgate on his shoulders--in the hallways; in front of other mechs--and he didn't even get angry at how much it flustered the recovering minibot.

The only time Cyclonus got mad was when Whirl plucked Tailgate off his shoulders and sped away. There might have been a strip of fire down the path of rage that tore after him. Maybe. 

"Eep!" Tailgate flailed helplessly in the larger mech's pincers as he was snatched up. 

"So, I was thinking," Whirl commented casually as he flung Tailgate into the air. "You said you wanted to do more things together with Cyclonus, right?" he asked all too eagerly, keeping stride as he dashed away from the scene of the crime. Whirl's peculiar hands linked around Tailgate's ankles after he settled his hostage on his shoulders. "You could race. Racing together is doing something together." A shout of enraged indignation echoed from behind. "But you're still all weak from the thing. So I'll be your legs."

"No!" Tailgate scrambled to hold onto the crazed mech's helm for foundation. "I mean," he squeaked as they rounded a corner so fast that the helicopter's peds skid. "Whirl! I-I don't think--" 

"Besides," Whirl continued. Claws skreeped against his rotors as Cyclonus locked a hand around the flailing appendages. He didn't even flinch. "Its way too much fun pissing Cydorkus off."

The purple mech dug in his heels and yanked backwards to stop the crazy copter. Visor bright in horror, Tailgate watched as the rotors popped free as if they had broken off. Whirl cackled gleefully and sped onward, leaving Cyclonus stumbling to try to catch up once more. 

"Whirl!" Tailgate eeped. "Y-Your--"

"That tickled," Whirl said with a crazed laugh.

It had been such a nice evening.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been difficult finding a time when Whirl was on duty when they both were not, as was hacking into the helicopter's room. While the initial plan of laying a trap in Whirl's room was something they both looked forward to, Cyclonus and Tailgate froze at the entrance of the room with the sight that greeted them.

Their optics and visor glowed bright in the darkened room highlighted with multicolored biolights shining amidst massive gears, springs, and cogs mounted on the walls. Biolights--biomechanisms taken from once-living Cybertronians--sparkled against faceted, artfully carved slabs of metal that seemed to cradle the lighting features as well as the Cybertronium plating they were created with. It was as though numerous mechs' plating had been ripped off and reshaped into something else entirely. 

Hypnotized, Tailgate stepped forward with a raised hand. His fingers grazed the surface of a gear half his height with small groves that ran collectively down one of the gear's teeth. It was as though a small, sharp point had dug out the unwanted metal and shaped the massive slab to the artist's desired shape. The metal had not been cut, it had been whittled away deliberately. 

The gear turned with a jolt. It's movement set in motion half of the wall's other gears and widgets. Clinks and clatters of moving metal chimed in an odd staccato. It was so strange that it was unnerving. 

"It's a chronometer," Cyclonus whispered breathlessly, reverently. Pieces amounted to nothing more when separate. But combined they formed a network of continuity and meaning. Somehow Whirl had been able to create enlarged replicas of the mechanisms of a mech's inner workings. It was both terrifying and beautiful at the same time. 

"Wow," Tailgate said while carefully touching one of the pieces that stopped moving. The cog had an engraving of a collection of jovial mechs on it. Biolights of varying colors accented each mech's optics, incorporating blues with reds and yellows with purples. 

So enraptured with their discovery, Cyclonus and Tailgate forgot about setting the trap for their once-enemy. They slipped away before Whirl's scheduled return. That night, lying together in their berth, they whispered softly to one another about Whirl, what he was, and what he might still be.


	3. Chapter 3

They would surely blame the Energex later for their current predicament. Once they were asked about it anyway. Flustered, Tailgate would try to change the topic. Cyclonus would glare balefully at whoever brought the topic up, just like he did when became public that he and Tailgate shared such closeness.

Whirl on the other hand… No one was quite sure how he would react, least of all Cyclonus and Tailgate. The helicopter was a wildcard on good days and a raging psychopath on bad ones.

But that didn’t matter. Not here, not now. They had slowly grown affection for the quirky Empurata amputee that seemed to cause more harm than good. It was why the couple had, in their inebriated state, guided Whirl back to their hab-suite.

“And then – get this! – he didn’t even have his stabilizers calibrated!” Whirl ironically said as he walked in the room at a thirty degree angle. He made a b-line for the lone chair in the room, but a firm shove from Cyclonus had him flailing away. Landing on the berth with a laugh, he fell back and continued. “So first step out the door—WHAM! Idiot fell flat on his afterburners.”

“He didn’t wait?” Tailgate said with a hiccup, climbing up onto the berth at the same time as Cyclonus. “But why…” He hummed in thought and ran an absent hand up Whirl’s thigh. “I mean. Why wouldn’t you get calibrated?”

“Beats me.” A heavy rushed of air whooshed out of Whirl’s vents, a sigh of content. Wriggles and jiggles brushed the three mech’s armor plates together in enticing ways as the drunken helicopter stretched out. “You aren’t going to snuff me in my recharge, are you?”

Still seated on the edge of the berth, Cyclonus let his optics travel down Whirl’s sprawled frame. The spindly design held a certain flair to it not like most blocky frames. He didn’t expect to become so heated at the idea of making the annoying idiot quiver in something entirely different from fear or pain.

“Be quiet,” Cyclonus murmured, swooping down and nipping Whirl’s shoulder lightly. A jolt went through the reclined mech’s frame. “Unless you want us to change our minds.”

Tailgate wedged his fingers between the first available seam on Whirl’s hips and caressed the wires affectionately. “’e’s got lousy pillowtalk,” he slurred, moving up to press his frame against Whirl’s side. “But Cy’s good at…um…” Warmth radiated from Tailgate’s facemask. He pressed himself closer when Whirl arched up from the stimulation. “…other stuff.”

Their differences showed; hard, rough contact left stinging tingles wherever Cyclonus touched while ticklish flutters ghosted after Tailgate’s soft exvents. It left Whirl looking back and forth between them at a loss for what to do. “W-What are you…”

He gasped, pressing a foot on the berth and arching hard. Cyclonus’ clawed digit dug into his auxiliary interface cover seam at the same time Tailgate started fondling his shoulder vents. An audible pop and spooling of cable fell right in front of Whirl’s optic—Tailgate was nearly straddling him by this point, giving him a clear view of the recently-upgraded interface connections at the smaller mech’s belly. They were so new that they almost gleamed.

A large hand blocked his view momentarily, but the quick zap of energy and soft keen from Tailgate painted a picture that even a blind mech would be able to see. They were—he was—was he? Energon swirled faster through Whirl’s lines. He looked over in time to see Cyclonus expose his own equipment nonchalantly. Prickles of unease gathered at the back of Whirl’s spinal struts. Why were they…

“Together,” Cyclonus groaned, a cable held in each hand. When did he get Whirl’s cable? The blue mech pushed himself onto an elbow unsteadily to protest.

Tailgate’s mask bumped against his prosthetic helm in as close to a kiss as either could give. “’s alright. It’ll feel great.”

“Wait,” Whirl rasped breathlessly, too late. The empty ports accepted the cables readily; Tailgate’s hardwire connection snuggling firmly into Whirl’s port while Cyclonus’ port swallowed Whirl’s connecter with a sharp sting.

A surge of excited energy whipped through the connection strong enough to collapse them onto the berth. Cyclonus groaned, Tailgate moaned, and Whirl keened as the shared energy coursed through the connection. It felt delicious, wonderful even. A hard push from someone had their fans revving hard to keep up with the intense heat buildup.

Cyclonus was mouthing along his shoulder again, interest renewed in the feedback the stimulation caused. Arousal, attraction, even affection made its rounds through the loop. Whirl’s own faint unease even filtered back to himself. Tailgate seemed utterly elated by the sensitive bundle of wires he found at Whirl’s waist. They quickly reduced the helicopter to a quivering, panting mess between them.

It was beautiful. Whirl had not shared a connection like this since his disfigurement. But the celibacy had been by his own choice, not the disgust of others. “St-op,” he rasped, pushing them with blunt edges of his clawed hands. “Stop,” he bit out more forcefully when they were resistant to budge.

The energy flowing between the hardline connection slowed. Trickles of disgruntlement and concern seeped into Whirl’s conscious before he viciously ripped his equipment free. The room spun in a dizzying pattern that reminded him of the many tornados he threw himself into in the midst of battle. The sensation was oddly welcoming.

Tailgate made a soft sound of pain from the berth. Whirl resolutely did not look back.

“Whirl,” Cyclonus snarled. “What are you doing? Where are you—”

The hab-suite’s door slid shut behind Whirl before the pair could pull an answer from him. He put forth great effort to get to his own suite. A flash of purple and white caught in the crack of the door, lost from sight when the locks initialized.

Urgent pounding at the door fell away to the sounds of ticking meters and turning cogs. Alone in his dark room with flashing biolights, Whirl collapsed to his knees. His lone optic cast a dull yellow light at the twisted claws that were his hands. He didn’t need their pity. He didn’t need their handouts.

He didn’t need to be fixed.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a task that Tailgate had a sincere disadvantage of. That was why he was allowed an "honorary booster" to help. Plus–those pincers?–they were handy. 

A crowd gathered around the two combatants (three if Whirl was counted) currently facing off in the fiercest competition since the game had first been introduced in Swerve's bar. Each move was made with the utmost care. The observers went 'ooh' and 'ahh' as the stakes raised. 

Brainstorm had to reach up high to place his newly-acquired piece. The precarious foundation the players worked around swayed dangerously, eliciting gasps from the nervous onlookers. Move finished, he took a good three steps back to avoid disrupting the stack.

"Over there," Tailgate directed, motioning toward the next most acceptable candidate to be eliminated. He tried to keep his bubbly excitement to a minimum. 

With the Waste Disposal Unit perched firmly on his shoulders, Whirl softly toed around the pillar of wit to their prize. The position seemed easiest for the pair. 

Tailgate had managed to talk Whirl into playing another game with him, like old times. He'd had to beg and plead helplessly, pointing out how he was so short and how the tower was so tall. And he was still so weak after his near-death experience. This one was only the second they'd played in...months, really. So being perched on Whirl's shoulders again had Tailgate blushing like the first time. It didn't help that he felt a faint flutter in his tanks every time Whirl adjusted his grip on his ankles. 

But they did have an actual advantage as a pair. Whirl's pincered hands, usually a nuisance, served to be the perfect tools for this purpose. They gently, oh so delicately in ways unbefitting the jerky bot, slipped around the rectangular selection and secured a firm hold. A shaky breath from Tailgate's heated systems brushed along the back of Whirl's neck and helm, sending a shiver through his frame that made the stack waver once more. 

"Easy..." Brainstorm said softly from the sidelines. 

The enemy's subtle encouragement was unexpectedly nice. Clearing his vocalizer, Tailgate ordered, "Pull it."

With a swift jerk, Whirl slipped free the rectangular slab of metal from the stacked pile of identical pieces. The tower had only a few pieces on the bottom half by this point, so the sudden jerk tested its stability. It barely even moved. It was solid. They were golden. 

Reaching down blindly, Tailgate took the rectangular piece as Whirl lifted it up. The tricky part was stacking the piece on top–it was another reason why their teamwork was so advantageous. Tailgate swallowed nervously and leaned up to place the piece. "Closer," the small bot said, shifting forward on Whirl's shoulders. They were nearly touching the towering stack, but Tailgate still couldn't reach. Leaning up, he set one hand on Whirl's shoulder vents. The vents instinctively flared at the touch. Almost...

Suddenly, Tailgate slipped too far forward on his perch. This was bad! He was going to fall! Flailing wasn't an option, so he frantically plunged his fingers into the top flared slat of Whirl's vents to catch himself. 

A strangled rev wasn't smothered fast enough to stop the reaction. Whirl backpedaled, vents hitching then wheezing hard at the unexpected caress. The air current pushed the tower to a precarious tilt. 

Tailgate squeaked, falling forward with the game piece in hand. His move threw off their combined balance and sent them crashing to the floor. The tower followed soon after, shaken by the rough landing. 

Groaning, Tailgate sloughed off a layer of rectangular metal pieces that rained down on them and looked around. The gathered crowd had broken out into fits of laughter at their spectacular failure. Swerve helped Tailgate up and gave him a good pat on the back. A few others congratulated him on a good effort. 

The tips of Tailgate's fingers tingled. He hadn't really meant to...touch Whirl like that. Shyly, he glanced over at the helicopter to his side. 

The next pair of "combatants" moved between them and piled the loose pieces of metal for the next round of the game. The minibot shuffled out of the way. He caught sight of Whirl pushing himself to his feet, both ignored by and ignoring the bots around him.

Whirl wasn't happy. 

Silently, the copter migrated to a quieter part of the bar. Tailgate followed at a laggy pace. Whirl seemed oblivious to him...or blatantly ignoring. Was he mad? Standing a few tables away, Tailgate stared at his hands while poking his pointer fingers together. What could he do? He hadn't meant to...well, do that. Not really anyway. His cooling fans clicked on faintly in shameful arousal. 

It took time to build up the nerve, but Tailgate managed to find it in him to creep over to Whirl's table. He pulled up a chair far enough to not crowd but close enough to signify that he hoped to talk. 

"Whirl, I'm–" Tailgate tried to say but cut off with a nervous squeak. "I didn't mean..." Whirl was staring resolutely away.

They sat without another exchanged word for several rounds of the noisy game. The occasional clatter of defeat seemed insignificant compared to the deafening silence between them. All the while, Tailgate fretted nervously. He wrung his fingers together, trying to think of something to say to make Whirl feel better. 

"Why?" Whirl asked suddenly, just after Tailgate sent a pleading comm to Cyclonus asking for help. "Why won't you two leave me alone?"

It had taken a lot of convincing for Whirl to even talk to them again after...the events before. He wouldn't even let Cyclonus touch him yet, and it was a struggle for Tailgate just to get a non-invasive shoulder ride. Did he think that Tailgate was too shy to make a move? Tailgate poked his fingers together nervously. Well, he really was too nervous to do something like that...on purpose. It had really been an accident, if an enjoyable one. Shame made his fans pick up faster. 

"We, um..." the Waste Disposal Unit said quietly. "We like you." He continued to poke his fingers together, head down. "We figured out that you're fun and nice once we got to know you. And um..." 

"I don't need friends," Whirl said coldly, still staring away. 

"Well..." Guilt clung heavily at Tailgate's chest. He didn't want to make Whirl upset. 

"It's not about what you need, it's about what you want."

They both looked up in alarm at their sudden visitor. Cyclonus towered above them, arms crossed and mouth set in a grim line. He was angry. Oh so very angry by the way his thinly slitted optics glared a hole in Tailgate. The smaller bot's helm shrunk down in his chassis nervously. "Tailgate. What have I told you." Oh, he was mad. 

Immediately, Tailgate's gaze snapped back to his fingers. Poke, poke. "To give him space."

The glare only intensified. 

Swallowing thickly, Tailgate continued the mantra. "Whirl will...will..."

"Decide on his own," Cyclonus finished as he glared down at his troublesome partner. "And?"

Tailgate' shoulders slumped. He felt horrible. "...we will respect his decision."

Nodding curtly, Cyclonus gently took Tailgate's hand and pulled him to his feet. The pair made their way toward the exit but stopped at a muffled voice. Tailgate looked back hopefully. 

Whirl still wasn't looking at them. But he did mumble, "...have Ratchet look at that scratch." Cyclonus and Tailgate stared at Whirl silently, confused. He apparently didn't like the weight of their stares because he huffed sarcastically and said louder, "Tails' arm. It got scratched when we fell."

Cyclonus turned Tailgate and looked over the small shoulder, optic ridges raised skeptically. There was a small, thin scratch down the length of his arm that barely cut through his paint layer. Tailgate started fretting, looking over both his arms for the supposedly significant scratch.

The heavy weight on Cyclonus' shoulders lightened slightly in that moment. Whirl refused to look at them, but that didn't stop him from worrying. Perhaps there was still hope after all.


	5. Chapter 5

They didn't push, just like Cyclonus promised. In fact, they left him alone entirely. No sidelong glances, no inappropriate closeness, no...anything. It was like Whirl was just another member of the ship for once. 

It was liberating. Tailgate didn't tag after him to play tricks on unsuspecting Lighteans. It was annoying before when he'd meekly try to talk Whirl out filling all of the shower heads with Sun-moper's powdered paint supply. They spent so much time bickering about it that the stupid pet bug re-stole all of the supplies. Talk about a buzzkill. 

Tailgate was annoying. The little big-guy seemed to forget just how puny and insignificant he was from time to time. Just one "misplaced" shot would get rid of the little nuisance. But Whirl wouldn't; he couldn't. He'd rip the spark out of any mech that ever even tried. 

And that feeling made him itch. 

Besides, 'Gate didn't need any "protection" with Cyclo-dork around. The stupid idiot was overly protective of what he thought was his. Heh. Whirl still remembered the good wallop he got after he snatched Tailgate up for the race around the ship. Cyclonus was strong when he wanted to be. 

"Strong and protective," Whirl mumbled to himself as he fiddled with his latest project, unwanted thoughts drifting through his processor. While he tried to focus on the havoc timed smoke bombs across the entire ship would cause, he just couldn't shake the emotions that haunted his processor. 

Caring, attraction, protection, want, a willingness to share, a need to keep. 

A shiver wracked Whirl's frame. The ghostly sensations from that brief, drunken interface left him on edge. He didn't need a helpless barnacle latched onto him, and he certainly didn't need some overprotective idiot trouncing all over his freedom. 

One misplaced pincer primed the bomb, and Whirl swore as it spun, spewing smoke into his small room. He staggered out the door, vents wheezing and chocking down the clearer air of the hallways. The habsuite door slid shut behind him, locking the gas inside. 

Well, so much for getting recharge that night. Whirl rubbed the crest of his tube-shaped helm with the back of his arm. He should do something to pass the time. The more he lingered, the more likely he'd be bothered by...feelings. 

After all, it was only the start of the night shift. Havoc could still be had.


End file.
